


In Which Mrs. Jane Dupree Has An Adventure (The Finding Herself Remix)

by Beatrice_Otter



Category: Now We Are Six - A. A. Milne, When We Were Very Young - A. A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh - A. A. Milne
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Crossover, F/M, Metafiction, POV Female Character, Poetry, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 11:50:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15948776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatrice_Otter/pseuds/Beatrice_Otter
Summary: Mrs. Dupree put on a golden gown and went down to the end of the town.  And this is what happened when she went past The End.





	In Which Mrs. Jane Dupree Has An Adventure (The Finding Herself Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fawatson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/gifts).
  * Inspired by [In Which Pooh Finds Someone Lost and is Rewarded](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1636025) by [fawatson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson). 



> Betaed by the_rck
> 
> Mrs. Dupree, of course, is from the poem "[Disobedience](https://allpoetry.com/Disobedience)" in _When We Were Very Young_ , one of A.A. Milne's two books of children's poetry (the other being _Now We Are Six_ ). She then wanders in and out of other poems in those two volumes before finding herself finally in the Hundred Acre Wood. The other poems are, in order, "[Halfway Down](https://allpoetry.com/Halfway-Down)," “[King John’s Christmas](https://orangemarmaladebooks.com/2011/12/09/poetry-friday-75/),” "[Missing](https://allpoetry.com/poem/8518939-Missing-by-A.A.-Milne)," “[Forgiveness](https://allpoetry.com/poem/8518989-Forgiven-by-A.A.-Milne),” “[The Knight Whose Armor Didn’t Squeak](https://allpoetry.com/The-Knight-Whose-Armour-Didn't-Squeak),” “[Bad Sir Brian Botany](https://doug4.blogspot.com/2014/09/monday-verse-bad-sir-brain-botany.html),” “[The Good Little Girl](https://www.poetrynook.com/poem/good-little-girl),” and “[King Hilary and the Beggarman](https://www.poetrynook.com/poem/king-hilary-and-beggarman).”

LAST SEEN  
WANDERING VAGUELY

There was nothing. She had come to see whatever it was, but there was nothing to see. Quite literally nothing; a white blankness with no form or texture, and flat somehow, as if it was almost insubstantial. The End.

Only, it wasn't an _end_ really, because surely that implied that things … stopped? But that also implied the existence of things _to_ stop. And there was nothing here.

She turned back to go home, for it was almost tea-time, and who would pour it if she wasn’t there, only—behind her was more of the same. She walked, thinking that surely she must come to something familiar soon; she had not been gone long.

Had she? Surely it was not tea-time, yet?

Where had she come from, before she was lost? She hadn't always been alone, surely, in this nothingness? Wasn’t there anyone here who could explain things and direct her back to where she should be?

She gripped the skirts of her golden gown firmly, feeling the satiny fabric slide between her fingers. It was the only tangible thing in her world, and yet insubstantial, hard to grasp, like the emptiness around her. She took a deep breath, feeling her chest rise and fall. But apart from that movement, she might not have been moving at all. There was no breeze or draft on her skin, and no scent either. Not of coal or smoke or people or anything. The air matched the sights and sounds perfectly: so neutral that it might almost, almost not exist. She wiggled her toes in her shoes—there was ground under her feet. Solid. Really there. The world might have … disappeared, but _she_ was still there, and there was no use panicking about it. Even if she wasn’t quite sure who “she” was.

What else had she forgotten? How had she gotten here? She had wanted to see, to _know_ , what was beyond her little life, at the end of the town; and she had found that there _was_ no end, only this emptiness waiting to be filled. The emptiness was strange to her; therefore, she had come from a place that wasn't empty. She had gotten lost somewhere on the way, but if she could find herself again, she would presumably find her home. Or perhaps it was the other way around, and in finding where she belonged, she would find herself. If only there were a someone to point the way, or a sign post, or _something_ to show that she was going in the right direction.

Thinking, hard as she could, chasing any scrap of thought, any memory, she could almost hear a childlike voice chanting. _James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George Dupree Took great Care of his Mother, Though he was only three…._ She shook her head. No, that was wrong. _Mother_ took care of _Jim-Jim_. Was she Mother? She rather thought she was. Dupree—that was her name, now, though it hadn't always been; and James Morrison was her son.

Wasn't he?

If she was here, in this nothingness … where was _he_? If she wasn't anywhere, was James Morrison likewise lost?

She almost missed her step, but caught herself just in time. This was a very good thing, for she found herself on a staircase.

"Now how did I get _here_?" she asked, thanking her lucky stars that she was wearing sensible shoes, for if the heels had been any higher, or the strap looser, she might have taken a tumble.

"Walked up or down," said the little boy at her feet. "How else can one get to the middle of a staircase?"

"But I wasn't _on_ a staircase, and now I am," said Mrs. Dupree. The boy was about Jim-Jim's age, but although he was a small boy, he was not _her_ small boy. He was blond and wearing a Peter Pan collar, and Jim-Jim's hair was dark, and he hated Peter Pan collars.

"Well, you must have forgotten it," the boy said. He stared up at her as if she was the strangest person he'd ever seen in his life.

"I've forgotten a lot of things in the last little while," Mrs. Dupree said, "But not that. I was nowhere, and then I was _here_. Wherever here is; do you know?" She took a seat next to him so that they could talk more easily. Children often responded better when one was not looming over them like a scarecrow.

"It isn't really anywhere," the boy said. "We're not at the bottom, and we're not at the top. It's somewhere else instead." At this eerie echo of her earlier thoughts, Mrs. Dupree clenched the bannister tightly. It was reassuringly firm under her hand, and in need of a good waxing.

"I see that," Mrs. Dupree said. She had already had quite enough—and more than enough—of metaphysical nothingness, but it would be cruel to take it out on a child who had answered to the best of his ability. "What's at the top?"

"The nursery," the boy said.

"And at the bottom?"

"The parlor," the boy said. " _And_ the front doors."

"What is outside the doors?" Mrs. Dupree asked.

"Oh, the town, of course."

A _ha_! thought Mrs. Dupree. A town was the furthest thing away from bare nothingness that she could possibly imagine. "Do you know _which_ town, by any chance?" Not that it mattered; anywhere was better than literal nowhere. And not that she knew what town would be the right one, come to think of it. But noting _that_ loss was nothing compared to forgetting her own _name_.

The boy shook his head, curly blond hair bobbing as he did so. "Mummy might know," he said.

"Then I shall find her to ask," Mrs. Dupree said. She must be Mrs. Dupree, if her son’s name was Dupree, musn’t she? _Surely_ she had a Christian name, given to her at the baptismal font? If only she could remember it! It would be too much to ask that the boy’s mummy might know her, or tell her who she was; but still, she hoped. She stood, brushing her skirts off, and wished she was wearing something different. Golden gowns were beautiful but not, alas, practical for exploration. Even such metaphysical exploration as she found herself in.

She walked down the stairs, for even if the boy's mummy was not downstairs the doors out to the town surely would be, only … the staircase faded away around her before she reached the bottom, and she was back in the empty place.

"Well!" she said to herself, partly to hear a sound in the eerie stillness. "Did that actually happen, or did I dream it? Did I dream Jim-Jim, my dear little James, too?" At that thought, her heart sank within her, but she shook her head very firmly. No, that was a silly thought. She had been there on the stairs with that little boy; she had a son whom she loved very much, and her name was Mrs. Dupree. If any of those were not true, she had no hope of finding her way to anyplace that was actually, well, a place.

She started walking again. What else could she do?

If only there were a policeman or someone to direct her back to town! A nice, respectable bobby, or a guard from a bank or something.

She stopped suddenly, for there, in front of her, was a guard! A real, live, Buckingham Palace guardsman, all in red! If he had appeared at her wish, why couldn’t her _home_ appear at her wish? But at least she was no longer alone.

“Hello!” she said, “do you know where we are?”

She felt terribly foolish when he didn’t answer, but of course he couldn’t while he was on duty. She looked around, and aside from him and the fence and his guard post, there was nothing and no one, still. Or was it only the fog, surrounding them this closely?

She walked up to the fence. Perhaps if she walked along it she wouldn’t get lost in the fog again? And perhaps a regular bobby would come, one who could tell her where she was and call a cab for her, and she could be back before tea-time, back before anyone noticed how terribly foolish she had been to go down to the end of the town against all advice.

She reached out a hand to touch the gate, and found to her surprise that it swung open at a touch. Well! Perhaps someone inside would be able to help! If nothing else, there were sure to be people inside the palace.

She walked through the gates, and found herself in a large courtyard. People in fine clothes hurried by in all directions, mostly with grand airs of self-importance, noses high in the air. She tried clearing her throat timidly, but they didn’t even look at her.

“Excuse me?” she said, the next time one walked by, but he didn’t even glance her way. Here came another one! “Pardon me—” and the woman in the embroidered gown and wimple gave a haughty sniff and rolled her eyes, hurrying by.

Mrs. Dupree set her lips firmly. If they were not going to give her basic courtesy, it was time to stop worrying about politeness. She stepped directly in the path of the next man to come by. “I need to speak with you,” she said.

He ignored her even more firmly.

“Oh, they won’t listen.”

She turned to see a tall, skinny man in a crown and ermine robes watching her. “Your Majesty,” she said, dipping low into a curtsey.

“How do you do?” the king replied. “Who’re you, and why are you in my palace?”

“I need help,” Mrs. Dupree said. “My name is Mrs. Dupree, and I have gotten lost, and forgotten almost everything. I am deeply sorry, your Majesty, but I do not even know your name.”

“I’m King John,” he said. “I got a new ball for Christmas, would you like to play with me?”

“Of course, your Majesty,” said Mrs. Dupree. She had never played ball with another adult before, only a child, but the King had asked her, and she could not turn him down.

King John produced a bright red India rubber ball and explained a convoluted set of rules. When Mrs. Dupree said she understood, they began to play. It was a fast-paced game, and neither of them were very good at catching the ball as it bounced off the walls and roofs of the courtyard around them, and so they had to run after it quite a lot. In what seemed like no time at all, for of course time flies when you are having fun, Mrs. Dupree had to stop for breath.

“Capital, capital!” King John said. “You must come back, and we’ll do this again!”

“I would be delighted, your Majesty,” she said. “But first, I must find my way home. That’s why I’m here, to ask for help.”

“Well, if you’re looking for help from the court, you won’t get it. They don’t listen to anyone who isn’t a knight or a lord.”

“But surely they’d listen to you, if you told them,” Mrs. Dupree pointed out.

“I don’t give orders _directly_ ,” King John said. “Besides, why should I help you home? If you stay, then you shall be here to play with me whenever I want you.”

“I should be glad to _visit_ , your Majesty, but not to _stay_.”

“Nonsense! I’m the king, you have to do what I say.” King John began bouncing his ball again. “And I say you’ve had enough time to rest. Come on, next round.”

She folded her arms and didn’t move.

“Come _on_ , I said!” King John said impatiently. He threw the ball at her.

She caught it and set it down gently. She wasn’t going to play, but she wasn’t going to let herself be a target, either.

King John’s face turned purple with rage. “GUARDS! _GUARDS_! Come drag this ungrateful wretch away and throw her out!”

In short order, she was outside the gates and back in the nothingness outside. She would have thrown a rock at the gates, if she could still see them, and if she could find a rock, and if doing so would not risk getting thrown in the Tower.

“King indeed!” she said. “He’s not a good king, nor even a good man!”

She began walking again, hoping to find another house or a building or _anything_. How long had she been at the Palace, playing ball with the King? Had anyone noticed she was missing? Were they out looking for her even now, or was Mr. Dupree simply oblivious in his study? She strained her ears, listening for searchers.

"Mousie? Mousie, where are you? Has anybody seen my mouse?"

She started. Well, they weren't looking for _her_ , but it was a person! A child, by the sound of the voice. "I haven't seen it," she said. "Can you tell me where we are?" Other than a respectable but plainly-furnished sitting room, that is—at least this time, when the room had coalesced around her, she had not almost tripped and fallen down the stairs.

"We're at home, of course," said a little boy, holding a box under his arm. One of his socks was falling down, she noticed, but other than that he was very neatly dressed and clean, obviously well-looked-after. He wasn’t her James, though; he was several years older than James was. She thought.

"Yes, but where _is_ your home?" she asked. "Do you know what city it's in?"

"London, of course!" the little boy said indignantly. "Fancy not knowing that!"

 _Fancy not knowing one's own name_ , she thought to herself.

"Miss," he said, "have you seen my mouse?"

"I said I hadn't," she said.

"I opened his box for half a minute," the little boy said, "just to make sure he was really in it, and while I was looking, he jumped outside! I tried to catch him, I tried, I tried!" His words had an odd sing-song rhythm to them as if they were rehearsed, but his lip quivered as if he were trying not to cry.

"I believe you," Mrs. Dupree said. "Have you looked under the furniture and behind things? Mice like small spaces."

"Oh! Like the box," the boy said. "But then why did he jump out and run away?"

"Well, animals are like people, in some ways," she replied. "None of us like to be cooped up and confined." At least, she thought with a pang, she was sure she hadn't. She had an almost visceral feeling of being smothered, of needing to run and _do_ something. Was that why she had gone to the end of the town? She was certainly free of any confinement, now; only, alone and friendless, it was a dreary sort of existence. If given a chance, she might choose the smothering.

"But I can't let him go," the boy objected. "He came from the country, he wasn't a _town_ mouse, so he'd feel all lonely in a London street!"

"Perhaps you can take him back to the country and let him go there," she said. "Or perhaps he will learn to like your home. Only, I'd give him more space than just a little box, and something to _do_ besides sit there until you want to play with him."

"Oh! Thank you, that is a very good idea," the boy said. "Mousie? Mousie? Has anybody seen my mouse?" He wandered off, stooping to look under chairs and tables. She watched him, wondering what sort of home a mouse might like.

"I forgive you, Nanny,” said another little boy with a sigh like a martyr. Mrs. Dupree turned and found herself in a well-appointed nursery, where a child and his nurse bent their heads together over a matchbox. My, there were quite a lot of little boys of six or seven wandering around; Mrs. Dupree liked children, but where were the girls? And of course, she was glad to see an adult who might direct her. If nothing else, the nanny could fetch her employers or the police, who might help her find her way home.

“Yes, you’ve said,” Nanny said. “You needn’t make such a production of it, nor hold things against people. It’s not gentleman-like.”

“I’m not holding it against you, Nanny,” said the boy. “As long as you don’t do it again.”

“Believe me, little one, I’ve _no_ intention of it,” Nanny said with a shudder. “And as long as it is _clearly marked_ —and any future animal or insect additions to the nursery are clearly marked as well—it won’t happen. And they will _be_ clearly marked if you _tell me_ about them as soon as you catch them.”

“And that says 'Alexander Beetle' on it?" he said, pointing to a little matchbox between them.

"Yes," said the nurse, brushing a curl out of her face and tucking it into her cap. "Do you see this letter here, what is it?"

"A 'b'."

"And this?"

Under the nurse's guidance, the boy spelled out the word “beetle.” “And _now_ Alexander Beetle won’t run away!” he said triumphantly. “Not now that his name is on his matchbox. And now that you know it’s _his_ matchbox, and not a box for matches.”

“What _is_ it about little boys and putting living creatures in boxes?” Mrs. Dupree wondered.

“Here now, how did you get here?” the nurse asked.

“I’m very sorry,” Mrs. Dupree said, “but I can’t answer that, as I’m not quite sure myself. I’ve had such a queer day—I’m lost and trying to find my way home, and looking for help. I was … only I don’t know where it was, only it was the end, there was nothing there. And I keep finding myself places, in the middle of rooms and staircases, only I’ve no idea how I got there.”

The nurse gave her a skeptical glance up and down, which she couldn’t blame her for.

The boy frowned and looked up at his nurse, tugging on her sleeve to get her attention. “Nanny, do you think that’s what happened to Mr. Beetle, when you let him out? Do you think he was scared?”

“No, Michael,” Nanny said patiently. “Alexander Beetle was only in the garden, which is his rightful home, and a place he probably likes living more than a matchbox in a nursery. I doubt he was frightened—”

“No, you’re right, he was very, very sorry that he tried to run away,” Michael said. “The matchbox is his home, now. He’ll be happy there, as long as you don’t open it and let him out by accident again.”

“I most _definitely_ will not open it again, now that I know he’s there,” Nanny said, rolling her eyes.

“Surely, if he was happy in it, you wouldn’t need to worry that he would escape,” Mrs. Dupree said. “If he was happy there, he wouldn’t _want_ to.”

Michael frowned at her and drew himself up to his full height. “Beetles aren’t inelgin— inta—”

“Intelligent,” Nanny said.

“— _intelligent_ enough to know what they want and what is good for them,” Michael said. “A box in my nursery is better than any dirty old garden, anyway.”

Mrs. Dupree stared at him, heart sinking within her. There was something very _familiar_ about the little boy. Perhaps it was his name; ‘Michael’ was familiar—might that be what her husband was called? She could not be sure, but it seemed familiar. And if she could not remember her _own_ name, why could she remember _his_?

“Perhaps he likes the dirt,” she said quietly, feeling rather silly. “Or, perhaps, the ability to choose.” He was only a boy, and it was hardly an important argument; so _why_ did she have such trouble forcing the words out? And it was only a beetle, why did she feel she had to?

“In any case, Mr. Beetle is not the issue here,” Nanny said. “We shall go see Mrs. Dupree, and _what_ she will say about a stranger in the nursery, I should like to know!” Taking Michael firmly by the hand, Nanny swept out.

“But … but _I_ am Mrs. Dupree,” she said. Wasn’t she? She followed them out into the hall, only to find they were gone, and so was the hall. She turned around, and found the nursery they had been in was gone, too. It was just as well; she thought she might prefer nowhere to _that_ place. She felt mildly ashamed of the thought, for it seemed a perfectly respectable and well-appointed nursery, and yet ….

People made such a difference. Even very poor places could be pleasant with good company, while bad company could make even the most opulent surroundings seem perfectly dreadful. She longed, abruptly, for someplace open and warm. Someplace where she could sit, and rest, as unlike the nothingness as possible.

Her foot squished down in some mud, and she made a face as she pulled it out of the sucking ooze. Mud? Now, _that_ was a change not only from nothingness, but from the tidy homes she had found herself in to this point.

Looking around, she found herself on a country road surrounded by fields and pastures. There was a convenient rock a few feet away, and she sat down on it to try and clean as much of the mud off her shoe as possible. It occurred to her to wonder, as she scraped mud off with a rock, why she was wearing such shoes, for they did not go with her gown at all. Sensible brown leather, with a low heel. Laced up, instead of straps and buckles; just the sort of thing for a walk in the countryside, and terribly unsuited for wearing with a golden gown. Had she chosen to wear them this morning (she thought it was still the same day), when she set out to see what was at the end of town? But if she had gone for sensible shoes, why a _gown_? Why a _golden_ gown? Or had her shoes changed along with the scenery? Nothing else on her person seemed to have changed, but how would she know? Really, it was a good thing she was wearing them, for she was sure anything nicer would have been ruined. But still, she wondered.

That done, she tilted her face up to the sky and closed her eyes, letting the warmth of a proper sunny summer day sink into her bones. It was quite lovely, and she felt the urgency and tension draining away from her. Really, she hadn’t had time like this to sit and relax in comfort for … for … well. That was one more thing she had forgotten, but it _felt_ like the first time she’d had like this in a good long while. She missed her little James, and surely he would be missing her, but … what else was there at home for her? She honestly did not know.

She would have stayed there for some time in perfect contentment, had not a horse nickered somewhere nearby.

Opening her eyes, she looked around, but couldn’t see it. Unless perhaps it was behind that bush? She hadn’t thought it was large enough to hide a horse, but perhaps it was; and perhaps there was a person with it, who could direct her home. If she wanted to go there; she might stay here in this pleasant pasture. It was by far the best place she’d been since she lost herself.

But then there was James, and he needed her, and she loved him.

She picked her way through the grass toward the bush, skirts held high so as not to get them dirty. If nothing else, the dampness of the grass would get more of the dirt off her shoes. Peeking around the bush, she did indeed see a horse; but such a horse! She tilted her head in surprise.

“Now, I’ve seen many a horse in my day,” Mrs. Dupree said, though until that moment she hadn’t known it, “but I’ve _never_ seen one wearing those sorts of trappings outside a picture-book.”

The horse, covered head to hoof in the bright tabard of a knight’s charger, snorted at her.

“Well, you can’t just be pastured here, not with the lack of fence and that getup on,” she said. “Shall we find your rider, hm? Or is _he_ lost, too?”

A head popped out from a nearby ditch.

“You pardon, milady, but I am not lost. I am merely _resting_.”

“In a ditch?”

“As you see,” he said stiffly. He climbed to his feet and swept her a gracious bow. “I am Sir Thomas Tom, of Appledore.”

“I am Mrs. Dupree, of— somewhere,” she said, making him a curtsey.

“Somewhere, eh? We’re all from _somewhere_ ,” Sir Thomas said.

“Why were you hiding in the ditch?” she asked.

“I was not _hiding_ ,” Sir Thomas said, lifting his nose in the air and puffing out his chest. In the gleaming, highly-polished armor, he was an impressive sight. He was a stocky fellow, bald, with an enormous blond moustache that quivered in disapproval.

“There are less wet places to take naps,” Mrs. Dupree pointed out.

“Well,” he said, picking a bit of grass out of a joint in his armor and carefully re-settling things, “there was a knight I did not want to meet. It is not that I am afraid of him, of course,” he assured her, “only, I am quite the most intelligent man in the county, and it would be a shame to subject my brain to the sort of hard knocks that even the _best_ fighter—which, I assure you, I am—receives in any sort of combat. And given that so many knights in the area are of Sir Brian’s views concerning combat—namely, that one must offer it to everyone one meets, even if they are busy with some other errand—well.”

“Fighting for a cause is one thing,” she said. “Fighting just to fight is silly, the sort of thing boys are _supposed_ to grow out of.”

“Mmm,” Sir Thomas said. “And yet a battle of single combat with a worthy foe is the greatest sign of knightly honor and chivalry.” His head swiveled to the road. “And perhaps we should discuss it later, out of view of the road.”

He chivvied her close to the hedge so that the road was no longer visible, and motioned her to be quiet, tugging his horse close so that it, too, would be out of view. Curious, she listened, and heard a jingle-jangle squeaking, accompanied by the clip-clop of hooves.

A woman in an old-fashioned peasants’ gown ducked around the bush, running into Mrs. Dupree by accident. She mimed an apology, and joined them listening to the knight riding by.

Her companions relaxed as the sound of the knight faded away. “Who _was_ that?” asked Mrs. Dupree.

“Bad Brian,” the peasant woman said, spitting at the name.

“ _Sir_ Brian—” Sir Tom began, only to fall silent at a roaring voice.

“I AM SIR BRIAN!” he bellowed.

“Oh, no,” said the peasant woman. “I hope it’s not old Johnny he’s caught this time, his arm never quite healed right after the last time …”

“I AM SIR BRIAN, BOLD AS A LION! TAKE THAT, AND THAT, AND THAT!”

“Sir Brian is a thoroughly unpleasant man,” Sir Thomas said.

“That’s not the half of it,” the peasant woman said. “I think he’s gone now: he never sticks around after knocking the flat of his sword ‘round someone’s head.” She peeked around the hedge and, satisfied, trotted off in the direction of the attack.

Mrs. Dupree followed her. She glanced back, to see Sir Thomas lingering behind the hedge. “Well?” she asked impatiently. “Are you coming?” She followed the other woman without a look back.

The victim was a young man, dark-haired and with a lumpy nose that had been broken at least once before. Blood streamed down his face from his nose and from a cut along his forehead. It was quite a gruesome sight.

The peasant woman was tsking over the state of the young man. She untucked his homespun shirt, already stained with blood, and wiped a bit of his head off to see it better. “Well, the cut isn’t _that_ bad, thank heaven, although it’ll need stitches. How does your head feel?”

“Not _too_ bad,” the man said. “I don’t think it’s cracked, at any rate; I fell down quickly this time, didn’t try to get up.”

“Smart,” the peasant woman said. “Bad Brian don’t take as much time on you, that way.”

“I’d like to take time on _him_ ,” the man muttered.

“Wouldn’t we all.”

“He does that _regularly_?” Mrs. Dupree asked, appalled.

“Oh, yes, three, four times a week he rides out, looking for someone to thrash,” the woman said.

“And nobody’s stopped him? Has anyone even tried?”

“We’ve tried,” the young man said grimly. “But with that armor, and on top the horse—if we could kill the horse, we could get him down where we could get at him. Only then he’d sue us for the cost of the horse.”

“What about another knight?” asked Mrs. Dupree. “Aren’t knights supposed to protect people from villains?” All James’ storybooks assured her that was the case.

“They’re too scared,” the woman said, scowling past her. “Bad Brian has ‘em all quaking in their armor.”

Mrs. Dupree followed her look to find Sir Thomas behind her, and startled. She hadn’t heard him, and she would have thought the metal of the armor would jingle or clank or squeak or _something_.

“I am not _afraid_ of him,” Sir Thomas said stiffly. “He lacks honor, as you can see by the way he attacks his inferiors, and is therefore not a worthy foe.”

“Worthy foe or not, protecting people from villains like him is your _duty_ ,” Mrs. Dupree said sternly.

Sir Thomas responded indignantly, and they went round and round, while the peasant woman tended to the young man, before Mrs. Dupree decided there was no further point in arguing. “Very well, then we shall have to see who is in charge, here. This country seems _very_ poorly run; shouldn’t there be a duke or a king to see that there is order and decency?” Not that King John had done that, but perhaps his ministers did?

“There’s King Hilary, but he doesn’t much stir from his castle,” the peasant woman said, wiping her hands on her apron as she stood.

“King Hilary?” Mrs. Dupree said. _That_ didn’t sound right at all. She had played ball with King _John_ , had she not? Still, it wasn’t like her memory was to be trusted at the moment. Or perhaps she had travelled from one kingdom to another without realizing it? “Where does he live?”

“In London,” Sir Thomas said.

“Oh!” Mrs. Dupree said. London! _That’s_ where she was from! Mrs. Dupree of London! “Well, I need to go there anyway. Which way is it?”

“About ten miles down the road,” Sir Thomas said, pointing in the direction Sir Brian had come from.

“Ten miles!” Mrs. Dupree said. She couldn’t go ten _feet_ without the world changing around her. But she did need to get back to London; it was her home. And if King John was not _really_ the King, perhaps this King Hilary would be a better king. “Well, I am going there anyway, I might as well ask the king for help while I am there. I don’t suppose anyone is going in that direction that I might travel with?”

“I shall escort you, dear lady!” Sir Thomas said.

She eyed him up and down. “And what help do you think you shall be, except to find hiding spots from people like Bad Brian?” Although, come to think of it, they might well listen more to a knight than to a lost woman, even one in a golden gown.

“I shall defend your honor,” Sir Thomas said. “Defense of a lady is always a great deed for a knight, no matter the character of the villain.”

“But not _my_ defense, I note,” the peasant woman said, lips pressed flat.

Sir Thomas ignored her. “Besides, I have a horse you may borrow.”

* * *

This was already by far the longest time she had spent in a real place since first she saw the end. Mrs. Dupree had no faith that her time in this place would last, but it was quite pleasant while it did. Sun, fresh air, beautiful fields. And if Sir Thomas was a coward and a bit of a hypocrite, he was still an excellent conversationalist, and didn’t speak over her or lecture her about things she already knew, at least not once she told him not to.

They lapsed into silence after a while. They must have made quite a picture, and she wished she had a camera to capture it. Riding a horse, wearing a golden gown, escorted by a knight in full armor—how like a child’s imagination! Was it something she had dreamed of as a child? She might have done; it filled her heart with glee, and an odd sense of satisfaction.

“Have you been a _good_ girl, Jane? Jane, have you been a _good_ girl?”

She reined in her horse abruptly, and needed to spend a few minutes calming it. Jane. _That_ name rang like a bell in her mind. That was _her_ name. Her name was _Jane_. Mrs. Michael Dupree now, on letters and things, but _Jane_ was her name and always had been.

“What is it, my lady Dupree?” Sir Thomas asked.

“I know that voice,” she said, looking around. There! There was a little girl with short brown hair, wearing a dress and bloomers and a big hat, leaned over a patch of flowers. Mrs. Dupree reached up and stroked her own hair, straight and brown, cut in a fashionable bob.

The girl looked up and stared at her. “Golly! You have a beautiful horse!”

“It’s not mine, it’s Sir Thomas Tom of Appledore’s,” Jane said. She dismounted, careful not to snag her gown.

The girl looked over at the knight. “It’s just like a picture-book!” she said, clapping her hands.

“Yes, isn’t it?” Jane said. “I am Jane Dupree, and as I said, this is Sir Thomas Tom.”

“I’m Jane,” the girl said.

“I know,” said Jane Dupree. She did. She knew this girl very well.

“Then there are _three_ Janes here?” Sir Thomas said.

“What?” young Jane said.

“Where is the Jane you were talking to?” Sir Thomas said.

“Oh! I was only talking to myself,” young Jane said. She made a face. “That’s all anybody says to me, it seems. ‘Have you been a _good_ girl?’ What do they think I might _do_? I’ve _always_ been a good girl, mostly. I went to the Zoo, and when I came home, they asked me again if I’d been a _good_ girl. Well, what did they think I went there to do? And why should I want to be bad at the Zoo? And should I be likely to say if I had?”

“And _had_ you?” Jane Dupree asked.

“Well,” young Jane looked from side to side, as if to see if her parents were within earshot, “I actually did feed the monkeys, even though you aren’t supposed to. But other than _that_ , I was good.” She favored the older Jane with a conspiratorial grin. “I don’t suppose that’s so _very_ bad.”

“I don’t, either,” Jane Dupree said.

“But why do they _always_ ask, and ask again?” young Jane asked. “Don’t they trust me? They don’t ask John whether _he’s_ been a good boy, and he’s ever so much more likely to get into trouble than I am. It’s not fair!”

“No, it isn’t,” Jane Dupree said solemnly. “You’re absolutely right, it isn’t.”

“Nobody can be good _all_ the time, and it seems like good girls can’t do any of the fun things.”

“I know,” Jane Dupree said.

“I don’t want to be bad, but I don’t think it’s right that John should get to do anything he likes, and they laugh and say ‘isn’t he an active little boy’ even when he is being _very_ bad indeed, and _I_ am always expected to be good and ladylike.”

“You should _always_ be a lady, and your brother should _always_ be a gentleman,” Sir Thomas interrupted.

“Yes, but there’s a difference between being _good_ and being _ladylike_ ,” said Mrs. Dupree, struggling to put her thoughts into words. “Some of the things we call _good_ really are good, like standing up to bullies or treating people well. Some of the things we call _good_ aren’t moral issues at all, but are just about helping society function smoothly—keeping to your place, letting things go on, working together. Like feeding monkeys at the Zoo. They need to be fed, but if everyone fed them, they would be over-fed and it wouldn’t be good for them, and so we agree to let the zookeepers handle it, even though it might be fun to do it ourselves.” She bit her lip, then went on. “And some of the things we call _good_ aren’t good at all, it’s just that some people find them convenient, and want to make people do things their way without talking about it, and so they call it ‘good’ to make it harder to disagree.” She wasn’t sure where that had come from, but she knew that it was true and something she had spent a lot of time thinking about.

“Oh!” said young Jane. “But what does it mean when Mummy and Dad ask me? What kind of ‘good’ do they mean?”

“Usually, all three at once,” Jane Dupree said. “But you must learn to tell which kind is which. It’s important to do the kind of ‘good’ that means doing the right thing, and at least some of the time it’s better to do the kind of ‘good’ that means helping society function. But you don’t have to do the kind of ‘good’ that is merely for the convenience of other people.”

Little Jane thought about this, scrunching up her face. “That sounds very hard.”

“It is,” Jane Dupree said. _That_ she knew, as sure as her bones. There had been a _lot_ of things in her life where the ‘good’ choice had been the convenience of other people over her own will and needs.

“Have you always been able to pick which one to follow?” young Jane asked.

“No,” Jane Dupree said solemnly. “But I always try.” She knew, suddenly, that the hardest part of it was when other people ignored your right to participate in a discussion of even what it meant to be good, but expected you merely to do as you were told, and only as you were told, and be content with that. Not fights, verbal or physical, but just the silent, constant pressure to be nothing but a shell for them to fill. And that was why she had gone to see the end, or at least part of it; she had wanted to, and Michael had _not_ wanted her to, and she had needed _out_ , and so she had gone.

Had it proved him right, the nothingness and the forgetting and all the trouble she had trying to get back? Was that the lesson she was to learn from this adventure, that he was right?

She looked down at little Jane, her younger self. If she had listened to Michael, she would never have seen young Jane, nor had this beautiful ride through the countryside escorted by a knight in shining armor. If it was not what she had expected when she set out to find the end of the town, it was not bad. She looked down at her younger self and loved her so, so much. “Jane, no matter what, remember that you have a great capacity for kindness, and a great capacity for stubbornness. Both will serve you well, if you use them right. Do what is right; do what needs to be done to participate in society, as long as it does not wear you down too much; and never let anyone control you simply because it is easier.” That last bit, she knew, would be the hardest and most important point.

“I won’t,” said young Jane, looking determined.

Jane Dupree ruffled her hair. “ _Good_ girl,” she said with a wink.

“Would you like to stay to tea?” young Jane asked.

“I would love to,” Jane Dupree said, “but alas, I have a little boy, about half your age, who I miss, and I need to get back to him.”

“Oh,” young Jane said. “Well, be sure to enjoy your ride! _Such_ a beautiful horse. And a knight too, what luck!”

“Thank you, I will,” said Jane Dupree. She led her horse over to a convenient tree stump and climbed back on, and she and Sir Thomas set off down the road.

Just around the next bend, there was a castle, with a moat and a drawbridge and everything. Outside the moat was a town filled with Tudor-style houses. Their timber frames contrasted smartly with the wattle-and-daub walls.

“There it is!” Sir Thomas said.

“That _can’t_ be London,” Jane said. “London is ever so much bigger, a city filled with brick and concrete and thick fog.”

“Perhaps there is another London somewhere else,” Sir Thomas said, “for I assure you, dear Lady, that that _is_ indeed London, where King Hilary and his court live. Shall we?”

They rode up to the gate, and Jane dismounted from the horse again, handing the reins off to Sir Thomas. She combed her fingers through her hair and neatened her gown as best she could—though it was definitely showing wear and stains that could not be fixed without a laundress’s attentions, and perhaps not even then. If she had known she was to be travelling by foot and horse all day, she would definitely have worn something different. (She remembered many more things now than she had when she first came to the end. Why on earth she had worn such a gown for such an adventure, she still did not know.) Still, best foot forward and all that.

Once she was as presentable as possible under the circumstances, she strode up to the castle gate and knocked as loudly as she could.

After a few minutes, it was apparent that nobody was coming. “Perhaps he isn’t here?” she said.

“Well, his pennant is flying,” Sir Thomas said. “So he _has_ to be here.”

“Perhaps his doorman is asleep,” Jane said, and pounded again, louder.

She kicked the door when nobody came. “Bother,” she said. “You know, after today, I shall have quite lost all my faith in authority? None of the people who _should_ have helped have been the slightest bit helpful! I think I shall just have to find my way home myself. And there’s nothing to be done about Bad Brian if _you_ will not do it, Sir Thomas.”

There was no reply. “Sir Thomas?” she said, turning around. He wasn’t there. Nor was the town of London. Nor—she turned back around just to be sure—were the castle gates. Instead of a warm summer’s day, she was back in the nothingness of The End.

“Well!” she said. “I have given up on authority figures, but not on _friendship_. Sir Thomas was not a very courageous man, but he was fine company.” But she thought she knew, now, how to find her way. The End was empty, but it was also quite responsive, waiting to be filled. “I want to be home with my little James,” she thought, as hard as possible.

Nothing.

“I want to be back on a warm, sunny, summer’s day, meeting friendly people.” She put her imagination to work, feeling the sun on her and trees around her, and was both surprised and pleased when it worked. “I suppose,” she said, looking at the trees around her, “that if I want to go home, I shall need to be able to imagine it more clearly.” Or perhaps it was merely that, much as she wanted to be with Jim-Jim, or ‘Young Master James Morrison Weatherby George,’ as Michael insisted on calling him, she was _not_ terribly eager to be back in the Dupree house, luxurious as it was.

Well, she would have to see what this new adventure took her. At each place, she learned something, and she would have so many interesting stories to tell. She began looking around, to see if she could spot anyone. Someone to share a cup of tea and a meal with would be ideal, she thought, for it had been a very long day.

She was in a wood, on a beautiful day. Bees buzzed overhead, and she was hungry, but not quite hungry enough to climb a tree to get the honey out of the beehive. There was a gorse bush, but of course those did not have berries on them. Perhaps she could find a sort of bush or tree that did produce fruit?

She could hear someone humming. She peeked her head around the corner of the gorse bush, and found it wasn’t a person at all, but a bear. Not a live bear, but a teddy bear, the stuffed sort that Jim-Jim had in his nursery.

“Hallo, what’s this?” the bear said.

Jane almost sat down in shock. “Hallo,” she said back, not knowing what else to say. She stared at the bear.

The bear stared back. “What are you?” it asked at last.

“Lost,” she replied.

“You’ve can’t be lost, I’ve found you,” the bear pointed out.

“Oh!”

“I’m quite good at finding things. I found the North Pole all on my own.” The bear seemed quite proud of it, as well it—he?—should be, though Jane could not quite imagine how he had gotten there and back.

“My word!” she said. Somehow, this was the most startling thing she’d seen all day, more so than a tiny London and knights and The End.

"Well, perhaps not _completely_ on my own," said the bear, shuffling from one foot—paw?—to another. "Christopher Robin came too."

“I see.” That name was familiar. Perhaps he was one of James Morrison’s friends? She hoped not one of Michael’s friends; they were all like him, except worse. Such a person would be a way home, and yet one which would make that return into an exercise in mortification at her disregard for her husband’s commands.

"Does Christopher Robin know you?" asked the bear, and she realized that it had been talking while she was wool-gathering.

Jane didn’t quite know what else to say to the bear, except perhaps to ask where she could find this Christopher Robin.

Then the bear’s tummy rumbled.

She had not thought that stuffing _could_ rumble, and yet his had. He was a very unique sort of bear. "Are you all right?" she asked. "Only, you are looking a bit peculiar."

"I feel most peculiar," said the bear.

It turned out that she was as hungry as she was. Well! She did not know whether real bears could climb trees, but stuffed bears almost certainly could not. And they were both hungry, and it would be foolish to go looking in search of other food when there was some _right there_. Suppose she found herself back at The End again? She hiked up her skirts and tucked them in to her belt, and climbed the tree. She hadn’t climbed a tree in such a long time, and was surprised by how fun it was. Not ladylike at all, of course, but then, so few fun things were. Michael wouldn’t like it if she started doing things that were not ladylike, but she had already decided to pay less attention to what he wanted, when it was only him trying to control her.

The honey was delicious, somehow moreso than the jam that came in pots on the breakfast table. It would have been nice to have some bread to put it on, or at least a cloth for wiping her sticky fingers on, but that was all right. She could lick herself clean, and wipe her fingers dry on the grass.

The bear—his name was Pooh, she had learned—left to get some more pots, which she had agreed to fill for him, and she was left alone. But it was a beautiful day in the forest, with birds chirping and sun shining, and so she was quite content to lie back and take a nap while she waited.

When Pooh came back he was not alone, but brought a boy with him, a few years too old to be one of James Morrison’s playmates.

“Are you Mrs. Michael Dupree?” the boy said. “Only, you look just like the picture on the poster.” He showed her a large poster with her name on it.

She took it and read it. “Mislaid? I wasn’t _mislaid_ , I went to do something and got lost. And—forty shillings! Is that all?”

“Forty shillings is an awful lot,” the boy said.

“It’s only two pounds, and less than I pay my maid every two weeks,” Jane said. “Forty shillings! _And_ signed by King John, when he wouldn’t help me get home when I asked him! I ought to give him a piece of my mind!”

“You mean, he knew where you were all along?” the boy asked. “But why put out the poster if he knew?”

“He doesn’t know where I have been all this time, but he was the second person I found,” Jane said. “He asked me to play ball with him, and I did, and then I asked him to help me find my way home and he refused, and when I wouldn’t play with him any more he had his guards throw me out.”

“That wasn’t very nice,” Pooh said.

“No, it certainly wasn’t!” Jane said. She looked at the little boy. “Excuse me, but who are you? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“I am Christopher Robin,” the boy said, holding out his hand to shake.

“I am Jane Dupree,” Jane said, shaking his hand solemnly. “I don’t believe we’ve met?”

“No,” Christopher Robin said, “I don’t believe so.”

“But if you have the posters, you must know how to get back to London? Hopefully the _right_ London, where my son James Morrison Weatherby George Dupree is?”

“Oh, yes,” Christopher Robin said. “I know how to get everywhere, even between the places that don’t quite connect right.”

“Excellent!” Jane said. “And I shall see that you both get your reward, more of it than just forty shillings.”

“That would be nice,” said Pooh, “Only, I need the honey _now_ , and would prefer not to wait until I have money to buy it. Can we fill my pots before you go? ”

“Of course,” Jane said. She and Christopher Robin got some more honey and filled Pooh’s pots, and then Christopher Robin guided her through the empty, End places in between and back to _her_ London, modern and sooty and filled with cars and brick buildings. She thought she caught the trick of how to do it on her own, so that she could go visiting other places any time she wanted.

“And if you can’t,” Christopher Robin said, “I shall come along and fetch you.”

“That would be divine,” Jane said. “I know I should like to see you and Pooh again, and I am sure my little Jim-Jim would, too.”

She bade Christopher Robin farewell at the foot of the stairs to her house, and strode up through the familiar doors. Once through them, all the little details of her life that she had forgotten came rushing back to her, and she let out a sigh. Some of them were very good, and some were not.

She was dreadfully tired. Everything in her adventure had turned out well in the end, but she longed for a good bath, and a nap, and tea.

“ _Where_ have you been?” It was her husband, sticking his head out of his study. “Do you _realize_ that half the town has been torn apart looking for you? How much trouble you’ve caused? It’s in all the gossip that you ran away!”

“I’m sorry for everyone else’s trouble,” Jane said. “I went to see the end, and I saw it, and I got lost on the way back. Though if King John had helped me home when I asked him to—for I saw him earlier and he had me thrown out instead of helping.”

“Not surprising, if you looked like _that_ ,” Michael said, eyeing her up and down. “Honestly, were you dragged backwards through a gorse bush?”

“No,” Jane said. “I want to see Jim-Jim, and then I need a bath. Tell my maid to bring me some tea, please.” She walked to the stairs, hoping that would be it.

“Are you quite mad?” Michael asked. “My mother is here to help with James Morrison Weatherby, but now that you’re here, you can change into something proper and go out with her and be seen and start quieting the rumors.”

“No,” Jane said. “I am tired, and Jim-Jim needs me more than society does. I shall see Jim-Jim, and take a bath, and that will be that. Tomorrow will be soon enough to deal with the rest of the world.” She started climbing the stairs, leaving Michael stuttering in outrage behind her.

In the nursery, Jim-Jim ran to her and threw his arms around her. “Mummy, Mummy! You’re home!”

“Yes, I am, and I promise I will always come back,” Jane said. “I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> AN: And even though this is over 9k words, I didn’t get to all the things I wanted to. I wanted to have her help the Dormouse (from The Dormouse and the Doctor) get his delphiniums and geraniums back, and there was going to be a whole thing about doctors (the doctor from The Dormouse and the Doctor being also in Sneezles, and how they are more in love with their own diagnoses than listening to their patients). And I was going to do something with Nursery Chairs and pretending to be someone you aren’t. I had no idea what I was going to do with Happiness, but it’s my favorite of them all so we were definitely going to do something with it. And there were other ideas, too. And then I realized I was like 7500 words in to the story, and it was almost the deadline, and it would be thematically complete if I just got her to the Hundred Acre Wood and then home, so none of that ended up being in it. Alas.
> 
> On [tumblr](https://beatrice-otter.tumblr.com/post/178397044282/dreamwidth-update-remix-reveal-in-which-mrs).  On [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/132159).


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